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Eddard Stark felt as though he had been lost in a long, endless dream. In the deepest part of that dream, he saw himself on horseback, returning at last to Winterfell, the home he had longed for every moment of every day.
At the gate stood Robb, waiting to receive him. Father and son greeted each other with laughter and warm words. He saw then how his eldest son had grown into a man—his beard now covered his face, and his voice had deepened, carrying the weight of maturity.
Oh, and there was the wolf—Grey Wind. He had grown to the size of a young calf, yet upon seeing Eddard, he remained as gentle as ever, allowing his lord to stroke the soft grey and white fur along his back.
The scene shifted. Now he was in his own chambers, and there stood Catelyn, waiting for him. After such a long separation, the two embraced tightly, holding on as if afraid the other might vanish, quietly savoring the warmth of each other's presence.
Eddard Stark's final memory lingered on the image of that tightly closed window. Ah, Catelyn was still so afraid of the cold. He should have gone and opened it for her.
The next moment, he awoke from the dream.
And the first person he saw when he opened his eyes was his enemy—Tywin Lannister. The man just stood there, staring like he'd been waiting all day. Eddard Stark calmly closed his eyes again, as if to say, 'Nope, not dealing with this today.'
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Roose Bolton, the great Northern lord who had once borne Clay's suspicions and wariness, yet remained unswervingly loyal in this altered timeline, soon brought back excellent news.
Lord Tywin had already agreed to the terms of the truce. Surprisingly, the issue that had previously stalled negotiations—the ransom of the Westerland nobles—was resolved with little resistance. Tywin had merely pressed a bit before consenting to the North's terms.
Lord Karstark even joked that it must be Roose Bolton's pale face that did the trick. He claimed that perhaps Tywin Lannister had a taste for such looks and couldn't resist our dear Lord Bolton once he laid eyes on him.
Laughter erupted in the tent, a roar of mirth echoing from every corner. Clearly, mocking Lord Tywin was a great source of amusement for these men. Even Lord Bolton, the target of the jest, did not mind Lord Karstark's crude humor. He, too, was in high spirits.
His joy did not stem from the victory alone, but from the aftermath that followed. He stood as the Northern envoy, led the negotiations, and held the upper hand against the Westerlands. He liked this feeling very much. It was the feeling of victory.
After three long and tense days, under the watchful eyes of nearly forty thousand soldiers on both sides, the prisoner exchange was finally completed. The North welcomed back their liege lord, while the Westerlands reclaimed the treasured son of Lord Tywin.
As for the unfortunate dozen or so Westerland lords, Lord Tywin promised to deliver their ransoms as soon as possible, with the gold to be received by the North at Harrenhal.
The two sides parted quickly and without unnecessary words. In the Northern camp, Robb Stark suppressed the powerful urge to rush forward and check on his father's condition. With steely resolve, he led his men and returned swiftly to their main camp.
On Tywin's side, Renly Baratheon's army had already crossed Bitterbridge and was marching swiftly toward the now-vulnerable King's Landing.
Tywin had no time to linger in prolonged entanglement with the North. He led his forces on a rapid march back to the capital, hurrying to organize its defenses. At the same time, he dispatched a contingent of two thousand heavy cavalry along the Golden road toward the Westerlands.
Cavalry served little purpose in a siege, and Tywin judged they would be better used in defending the Westerlands. He could not rely on Stafford Lannister, that useless fool, to lead a group of green boys who had never seen blood and expect them to hold off Victarion Greyjoy's Iron Fleet. That would be no better than sending them to die.
Among those two thousand men, Tywin placed his newly ransomed son, Jaime Lannister. After thoroughly scolding the despondent knight, Tywin confided in him:
"You will return to the Westerlands with these two thousand cavalrymen and serve as acting Lord of Casterly Rock. You must understand this, Jaime. If the two Baratheon brothers can set aside their hatred and tolerate one another, they may very well march on King's Landing together and strike at Joffrey."
Tywin paused, and his tone grew even more serious, heavy with the weight of command:
"When that moment comes, all lines of communication between Casterly Rock and King's Landing will surely be cut off. Your task will be simple. Drive those ironborn back into the sea. And if I cannot hold King's Landing—if the city falls—I will have Joffrey strip you of your white cloak before the end."
Jaime stood frozen at those words, stunned by the cold pragmatism of his father. Tywin's expression remained unchanged, as if the grave situation before them did not trouble him in the slightest.
"Whether it is Renly or Stannis, Joffrey's chances of surviving are slim," Tywin said, his voice calm and unshaken. "I will not surrender. In all my life, Tywin Lannister has never bowed to another. But you, you are different. Once I am dead, you will become the Lord of Casterly Rock. And then, when the victor emerges, you will lead our house and bend the knee to him. That is all that matters."
Jaime Lannister opened his mouth, wanting to speak. A flood of words surged to the tip of his tongue, but not a single one came out. The silence between father and son stretched for a long time before Jaime finally forced himself to ask in a strained voice:
"What about Tyrion? He has nothing to do with any of this. Let him come with me."
A faint, almost imperceptible smile tugged at the corners of Lord Tywin's lips. He answered his son's question with measured calm, as though speaking of the fate of his other son was no more than an ordinary matter.
"Jaime, I'm glad you asked that. That is what it means to be a family. Remember this. No matter what happens, the lion banner of House Lannister must always fly over the ramparts of Casterly Rock. That is all that truly matters."
"As for Tyrion, though he is the dwarf sent by the gods to punish me, your brother is cleverer than you. He will hold King's Landing for me. That wretched city suits him."
"If you insist, when the city falls, I will see to it that he is smuggled out. After that, what becomes of your brother is no longer my concern. That will be a decision for you, the future Lord of Casterly Rock."
While Tywin and Jaime, father and son, spoke in the heavy tones of a final farewell, preparing for the legacy of House Lannister, far away in the North, a very different scene was unfolding. Joy filled the air and songs of triumph rang loud and clear.
After Eddard Stark was brought back safely, the Northern soldiers witnessed a sight that confirmed their victory. The Lannister army, which had blocked their path for so long, began swiftly packing up their camp and preparing for a retreat to the south.
Yet even in retreat, the Lannister forces remained disciplined and methodical. They left not the slightest opening for the Northern army to strike. Only when the last banner bearing the golden lion vanished from view and the Northern vanguard set foot inside Harrenhal did jubilant cheers erupt across the Northern camp.
Robb Stark's infantry had fully entered the castle, while Clay's seven thousand cavalry remained stationed outside, scattered in positions ready to repel any sudden Lannister counterattack.
Regardless, the first feast held after the army entered the castle was one Clay, the man of great merit and countless achievements, was certainly expected to attend.
That night, within the grand hall that once belonged to House Whent, the Northern lords were loud with chatter and spirited argument. Many had carried worries in their hearts, but when they saw Eddard Stark seated firmly in the lord's chair, aided by Robb's steady arm, those worries quickly melted away.
It seemed Lord Eddard's injuries were not too serious. Everyone could finally breathe a little easier.
Although Lord Eddard had become a prisoner, and the two or three hundred Northern guards who had followed him south were nearly all slain, no one in the North believed he had done anything wrong.
Eddard Stark remained the undisputed lord of the North. It was simply clear to all now that he must never go south again. The people's hearts could not endure another blow like this.
As for Eddard Stark himself, he felt his spirit remained strong. Though his body burned with fever and he was utterly drained of strength, he believed that as long as he returned to Winterfell, he would soon recover.
The people of the North were known for their resilience. He believed, with quiet conviction, that he was no different.
"My lords," Eddard began, his voice steady though still weak, "thank you for aiding my son in this war, for helping him uphold the honor of House Stark. In the name of the Old Gods and the New, I, Eddard Stark, thank you all."
One after another, the Northern nobles and a few of the Riverlands lords who had come with Clay rose to respond with humble courtesy, insisting Lord Stark's words were too generous. When it came to Clay, however, he merely said:
"Lord Eddard, welcome home."
He believed this was the one thing Eddard Stark would most want to hear. It was the very thought that had kept the man alive through his long escape from King's Landing. At the root of it all, was it not the simple, burning desire to return home?
Eddard Stark recognized Clay. Though he found it curious that this young man from House Manderly now sat even closer to him than Roose Bolton, his impression of Clay remained that of the impulsive boy from Winterfell.
He offered the young man a tired smile and thought little of it. Yet he soon noticed something unusual. Clay Manderly's standing here seemed unusually high.
No matter who Clay spoke to, no matter whether the other person was in the middle of speaking to someone else, they would immediately fall silent and listen to what Clay had to say. No one appeared irritated or surprised. It was as if such behavior was only natural.
At first, Eddard thought it was a coincidence. But after observing the room more closely, he came to understand. In this hall, Clay Manderly's position truly seemed to match his seat, second only to Robb Stark himself.
This was far from normal. Clearly, something significant had happened during his absence, something he did not yet know. But now was not the time to inquire. Once he had recovered, he would ask in full.
After this brush with death, Eddard Stark still quietly supported Stannis Baratheon's claim to the Iron Throne in his heart. Yet he could not demand that his son attack Lord Tywin and drag the false king in King's Landing to the block.
There was one thing Clay Manderly had said that rang true. It truly was time to go home. No matter what came next, the war had now become a contest among the three men who bore the name Baratheon. The war that belonged to the North, for now, had come to an end.
Eddard Stark could not drink much wine. His body was still far too weak, and the wound in his leg throbbed with pain. Though his spirit remained unbroken, he needed time to recover.
He had come out this evening only to ease the hearts of his bannermen. Everything else, he would leave in Robb's hands. The boy had grown up after all.
As Eddard Stark slowly rose from his seat under the watchful and concerned eyes of the assembled crowd, gently supported by Lady Catelyn, whose eyes were red and swollen from crying, the hall fell into a moment of quiet. But the silence did not last. The feast soon surged back to life, with voices rising in a wave of celebration.
Lord Eddard had survived and was safe. The old lion had been driven back. It could be said that the Northern army, in its march southward, had achieved a resounding and glorious victory. Most of the men had little interest in the looming great war that was about to erupt at King's Landing.
As for the future, everyone would be looking to Robb for direction. Lord Eddard's health would not permit him to take part in further planning. Best to let him rest and spare him the burdens of war.
"Lord Robb, what should we do next?" the Lord of Karstark suddenly called out, his voice cutting through the noise of the feast. "Are we just going to sit here and watch that piss-soaked cesspit called King's Landing while the two Baratheon kings and that Lannister bastard slaughter one another, and then call whoever wins our king?"
A hush fell once more over the great hall. Clay, seated beside Robb, glanced at the Northern lords. Not a single face bore an expression of approval. All of them looked on with scorn.
It was a revealing sight!
The words spoken by Lord Karstark gave voice to the unspoken thoughts held by most of the Northern nobility. They shared a common sentiment—a firm belief that none of the three claimants to the Iron Throne in the South was worthy of their allegiance.
First, there was the golden-haired bastard from House Lannister. Place a blade upon a Northerner's shoulder and they would still lift their chin and spit in your face rather than kneel to such a man. To call him king was no more than a cruel joke.
Next, there was Renly Baratheon, who commanded an army of a hundred thousand, the most formidable host in all the Seven Kingdoms. His name carried a fair reputation, and his strength was undeniable, but to Northerners, he bore far too strong the scent of the warm and gentle South. He was too smooth, too soft, too foreign to their frost-hardened ways.
Lastly, there was Stannis Baratheon, the man Lord Eddard Stark had once openly supported. To be honest, of the three, the Northerners could tolerate him more than the others, if only by pinching their noses and swallowing their bile. But even so, that only raised the question: why should the North accept any of them?
At present, they had united their forces with those of the Riverlands, and their combined army had already grown to more than thirty thousand strong. So why should they bow their heads to Stannis, a mere lord of a distant island, and pledge their loyalty to him? Why should they risk life and limb to fight for an enemy whose name they could scarcely recall?
Men act with purpose. If it is spoils of war they seek, they already possess them. Beyond that, the Northerners can find no reason compelling enough to drive them into battle for the would-be stag king and his ambitions.
What's more, word has spread that Stannis has torn down all the septs of the Seven and replaced them with the teachings of a foreign sorceress from Essos. He has named her his high priestess and now worships some foreign deity called R'hllor, the so-called Lord of Light.
With that, Stannis, too, had lost whatever faint appeal he might have held. He no longer felt right to the Northerners. His scent, too, was wrong.
So then, this question from Lord Karstark is not without reason. In the current chaos engulfing the Seven Kingdoms, it is unrealistic to expect that the North will suddenly disarm, sheathe their swords, and retreat into peace.
The next step must be decided—should they return home to gather their harvests and secure their hold, or remain where they are, maintaining their watchful stance while waiting to see how events unfold? There must be a plan. After all, once the Northern host withdraws, what becomes of the Riverlands?
Can someone like Edmure Tully, with his mediocre grasp of command, truly be trusted to hold such a vast and embattled territory? Even if he were handed one hundred thousand soldiers, it still would not be enough. And should he suffer defeat, will the Northern army once again be forced to march south, called upon to wage war anew in defense of their ally?
Once an army disperses, the warriors return home with their share of loot and settle back into their warm halls. When they sit with their wives and children, enjoying the peace they have earned, how many would still possess the will to follow their lord into another southern campaign, risking their lives all over again?
To avoid falling into such a passive, reactive state, the great lords must begin laying down arrangements in advance. The shrewd and farsighted among the Northern nobility have already seen this truth clearly. It just so happens that Lord Karstark was the one to give voice to what many have already begun to realize in silence.
"Lord Karstark," Robb Stark replied, his tone calm and measured, "you must understand this—whether it is Renly or Stannis, neither is a choice we can make lightly. We Northerners are from beyond the Neck, and what happens in the South is not our concern."
Robb's answer, on the surface, seemed to say very little. Yet as he spoke those words, one sentence from Clay during their earlier negotiation echoed in his mind with lingering weight:
"Robb, I name you King in the North…"
That title, those simple yet stirring words, repeated themselves again and again in his thoughts, refusing to fade. In that moment, the young Lord Stark was struck by a sudden, powerful clarity.
Why should the North not be free to choose its own king?
A True king!
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[Chapter End's]
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